


If I Die Before I Wake

by ShadowHaloedAngel



Series: One Night [5]
Category: The House with a Clock in its Walls (2018)
Genre: Angst, Backstory, Depression, Found Family, Gen, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Male-Female Friendship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Sick Character, Sickfic, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 12:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20258005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/pseuds/ShadowHaloedAngel
Summary: There is a difference between sick alone, and being sick with another to take care of you. When you've lost everything it can be so very exhausting to rebuild.Fleshing out some backstory, and set before the events of One Night. Warnings in the notes at the beginning.





	If I Die Before I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for: canonical child death, discussion of the holocaust.

All of this was disorientating. It wasn't that she wasn't grateful, no. Of course not. She was very grateful to be alive. It certainly wasn't somethign she would ever take for granted anymore. Alive, perhaps, but living might have been a little bit of an exaggeration. Alive, but no longer really whole. Existing. It wasn't life, and sometimes her gratitude was tinged with a little bitterness all the same. 

America was... different. America was... big and busy and bright, perhaps not so much out here, but where she had arrived... she was grateful to have been allowed to settle in a small town. It was... less overwhelming, less demanding of all the senses, but there was a displacement to it that ached in her soul. The houses were all so... new. Not to the residents here, perhaps, but compared to what she had known. Everything was new and uniform, there were none of the beautiful raggedy edges that felt like home. The streets were straight and uncompromising, with no winding cobbled lanes to get lost in amongst honeyed stone. There was no smoke here, either. 

She had been resettled. Given a home and some assistance because of her powers, and she was grateful because she had had nothing. She knew what it truly meant, and she had nothing, and she was alone. It was a nice house, truly, and she had something of an allowance off the record. Survivors weren't veterans and so mostly it was luck. It was luck, too, that she had been able to recover something of what she had owned before.

They had been preparing to flee before the knock on the door and their things had been held in storage by a family friend. When she had managed to send word, some of her old life had been returned to her. In some ways it helped ease the sense of absolute isolation but in others it felt like shards of glass in a wound, constantly preventing it from healing. It felt like she was being alternatively rebuilt and destroyed in turn every time she looked around the room. 

They had settled her next door to a pair of warlocks. She was assured they were nothing more than friends but she had no interest in judging them, whatever the case was. She had known people who didn't necessarily confine themselves to societal roles, and after seeing what judgement could wreak she had no wish to be a part of it. They were... polar opposites in personality. 

Jonathan was warm and friendly, and somehow gave the impression of being at once older and younger than his years, for all that she wasn't actually sure exactly how old he was. Isaac was... cold. He made her uncomfortable and she didn't like to linger near him. He reminded her too much of the men with blank faces who had herded them from place to place like cattle. The stories she heard were that he had not always been like that, and indeed she remembered his name. He had built up quite a reputation for himself before the war. This man didn't match up to the picture those magazine articles had painted. 

She could speak the language here, mostly. Sometimes it was hard to find the words for things, and she had not yet shaken her accent. Things like that could draw attention and suspicion and there were days when the prospect of going out in public and having to talk to people, seeing the way they looked at her with pity or suspicion, was enough to bring her to tears before even leaving the house. She somehow felt simultaneously young and lost, and old beyond words, and there was not a day that went by without memories of those she had lost passing before her eyes. She hadn't died in the camps, but this felt like a slow death, prolonged and cruel.

The thing she feared the most was getting sick, and she was not yet sure whether that fear was irrational or not. She was in America, with world-leading doctors and developments happening all the time, because war led not only to revolutions in death but in healing. She did not want to know how much of that knowledge had been gleaned from the camps and the tortures she had seen, so many of them barbaric and utterly pointless. Even out here in a small town in Michigan there was a doctor, and from what she had overheard from others he was a good soul as they went. Old-fashioned, but kind, and he read the journals and he listened. It was rare, but even the women she overheard seemed to speak well of him. 

Logic was no defence against her demons. She had no defence any longer. Even her power had deserted her. She could no longer heal herself. She might be able to magic things away faster or work with some herbs to soothe symptoms but when sick magic could be unpredictable and she didn't want to take any risks, let alone be reminded of yet another thing that had been ripped from her. Instead she had primal, paralysing fear that held her so tight her bones ached and her heart stopped and her breath burned in her throat as tears boiled in her eyes. 

She had seen neglect and callous inhumanity. There had been doctors in the camps but they had been entirely undeserving of the title. She had seen what a lack of medical care could do, and the loss of it had left a gaping wound she felt might never heal. 

A simple stomach bug might lay her out for a week or longer, too weak to help herself and with nobody there to step into that void. It was not only the loss of immediate family, but community, support network and friends, the family of choice if not of blood. People from the synagogue would bring food and medicine, even friends from the cafes would bring wine and what they felt might contribute. She had never been so alone before, and it somehow made it so much worse. They had wished to cut people like her off from the rest of humanity, and it truly seemed in those moments as though they had succeeded.

Even now she was trying to recover, pale as snow or paler still, skin like parchment and half-translucent, ribs curving beneath ivory silk like an illustration from a medical textbook, the bumps of her spine ugly and protruding enough that each one could be counted, staring at her reflection in the unlit mirror of her empty bathroom as if looking at a ghost. Her body had been rejecting everything she attempted to give it for days and nothing seemed to help. The memory of Celeste stabbed beneath her ribs with every heartbeat as she remembered the frantic fight to keep her alive in the face of a disease devouring her from the inside out, wasting her away. There seemed an awful symmetry in dying the same way, and yet she remained persistently, frustratingly alive.

If she was still here in the morning she would smile at Jonathan over collecting the milk bottles. Perhaps if he smiled back, she might not be a ghost after all, a dead woman who had forgotten to die that everybody looked straight through. Perhaps after all there might be someone who might miss her.

***

Over the years, some things had changed while some remained the same, as such things always do. The gaping wound had finally healed into a scar which ached only on dark nights, and the most irrational depths of the fear had retreated. She was alive again, for the most part, and occasionally she even lived. Jonathan was a good friend now, and they had become a strange little family with the arrival of his nephew. At first Lewis had been... a test, to say nothing of the circumstances surrounding his arrival, but she cared for him very much and really she wouldn't have wished any of it any other way.

“Hey Florence, good morning, good ta see ya… welcome…”

Florence paused in the doorway where she was removing her coat and hat and regarded Jonathan with a gimlet eye. 

“…Jonathan, I’m here every morning. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Well, I mean, don’t you want to put your stuff down before we worry about a little thing like that? Maybe have a coffee?”

“…Jonathan.”

Florence glanced around the hallway, frowning a little. It was certainly quieter than it usually was. 

“…Where’s Lewis, Jonathan?”

“…He’s still in bed. He really didn’t want to get up this morning and I’m kinda worried because you know what he’s like, he’s…. that kid who’s weirdly enthusiastic about school and everything, and now he’s just kinda lying there and I think he has a temperature but I’m not sure because how do you even tell that kind of thing? I remember my mom putting her hand on my forehead but I don’t know what I’m feeling for, I can’t tell if he’s too hot or not!”

Florence watched him squirm for a long moment, then sighed and turned towards the stairs, trying to ignore a sickness in her stomach she had long thought forgotten.. 

“…I expect that coffee, Jonathan.”

She walked up to Lewis’ bedroom, tucked in among the eaves, and knocked quietly. 

“Lewis? May I come in?”

“Id dat you mithith thimmermann?”

“Yes it is.”

She opened the door and smiled a little, well-practised now at schooling her face into emotions she didn't feel. Projecting anything other than calm would not be useful at this stage.

“Your uncle says you’re not feeling very well. May I take a look?”

Lewis nodded, and Florence crossed over to the bed, perching on the edge to get a better look. She started by taking his temperature, and then feeling around his glands and getting him to open his mouth. 

She smiled softly at him, stroking his hair back. 

“Oh sweetheart, you must be feeling awful right now… I hear the flu’s been going round at school, is that right?”

Lewis nodded, and Florence leaned in to gently kiss him on the forehead. 

“Alright. I’m pretty sure that’s all this is, but you’ll feel better soon and I’ll look after you in the meantime. Your uncle means well but he’s a bit clueless. Don’t you worry about school, I’ll see if I can catch Rose Rita later and ask her to collect your homework for you. You’ll be back up and about before you know it.”

“Dank you mithith thimmermann.”

“You’re quite welcome dear. Close your eyes and get some rest, I’ll bring you some water.”

Lewis nodded and closed his eyes, snuggling back down into the sheets, and Florence sighed softly, achingly wistful as she crossed the room back towards the door. 

Jonathan was waiting outside, ready to pounce, though fortunately he did indeed have her coffee ready. Which he promptly spilled on the floor. Florence sighed and zapped the spot dry with her finger and taking a moment to steady her voice against the pounding of her heart in her chest. 

“Is he alright? Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, Jonathan. He’ll be fine. The flu’s been going round at school, that’s all. He’ll probably be laid up for about a week but he’ll be fine. I suppose I should plan to stay for the next couple of days and make sure he’s okay.”

“…Are you sure you really wouldn’t mind?”

“I don’t mind, Jonathan. I think he deserves better than being consigned to your care, although I’m sure you could learn.”

He grinned, but there was real gratitude in it all the same as he gently squeezed her wrist. 

“Thanks Florence. I owe you one.”

“When haven’t you owed me, gorilla groin? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll fetch myself some breakfast. I see your hosting hasn’t improved.”

Jonathan stepped back and let Florence make her way downstairs, following on her heels. 

Florence paused in the kitchen to steady herself by the stove, grateful that Jonathan didn't comment as she attempted to mask the moment as one of consideration before zapping some pancakes into existence and refilling her mug of coffee. 

She considered the pancakes for a moment before drizzling them with syrup and butter, then carried them to the table with a satisfied nod. She settled down, then looked up at Jonathan, who was still standing awkwardly in the doorway. 

"Are you just going to hover? Because that could be arranged, but you'll find it has a tendency to irritate people."

"No no, sorry, of course... thank you for stepping up to take care of Lewis."

"I'm sure you could do it, but I'm equally sure it will be easier on all three of us if I do."

"I don't know how to take care of a kid."

"Nobody does when they get one, but all of us have to learn. It's just that men get to get away without doing most of the learning."

"It's hardly something I expected."

"No," Florence sighed, "I know. And I don't blame you. Anyway, it'll be fine. I'm sure if I wasn't here you would have managed just the same."

"If you weren't here I would probably have called Mrs Pottinger and asked her for some help."

"She's a good woman. I'm glad to be able to spare her that at least."

"...I think I'm offended?"

"I really couldn't care less either way, Jonathan. Now. Am I at least allowed to eat my breakfast before I resume my duties, sir?"

"...Yes. Is there anything I can do?"

"Take Lewis up a glass of water. I'll take care of the rest when I've eaten."

Jonathan nodded and headed for the sink, while Florence regarded him carefully. She had a sinking feeling in her stomach she was trying to ignore. He was mostly himself and he looked mostly normal, but there was just something around the edges that didn't quite... seem right. After a moment's consideration, she added an extra pancake to her plate. She had the feeling she was going to need it. 

After breakfast, Florence set the dishes in the sink and went to check on Lewis again. 

He was asleep for the moment, but she checked his temperature and refilled his water, and then went looking for Jonathan, whom she found asleep on the couch. 

"Jonathan?"

"Hmm?"

After a moment's hesitation, Florence crossed over to him and felt his forehead, biting back the urge to mutter something as she felt him running hot too. She sighed and helped him up gently. 

"...Alright Jonathan, come on. Time for bed. You haven't exactly been around small children much, have you, that immune system of yours isn't designed to cope with parenthood..."

"Oh but Florence this is all so sudden..."

"Shut up, mush brush. My god but you're heavy."

She managed to steer him into bed and took a moment to catch her breath. 

"...At least change yourself rather than making me do it for you. I'm not against nursing, but I have my limits, Jonathan."

"...Yeah I can take care of it."

"Good. I'll bring you and Lewis both up some tea."

Florence bustled out, closing the door quietly behind her, and took a moment to lean against the wall. She'd been here before, long ago, nursing both Celeste and Maurice when they'd come down with something at much the same time. She'd suffered with it herself of course, but... well, there had hardly been time to worry about that. She missed them both terribly, and she had occasionally wondered what would happen if she got sick, wondered who would step up to help her. She'd long ago come to the conclusion that it wouldn't be anybody. It was an issue with having so few friends, or really, one friend, and one friend who wouldn't have the first idea how to help although he would try. Part of what was exhausting about being sick was having to explain to someone else how to help make you better. Still.

She pushed off from the wall and tried to ignore the little voice that said if Jonathan was coming down with this she probably would too, because the two of them needed taking care of, and there was nobody else to do it. She had long ago become accustomed to doing the things that needed to be done. She pushed the little whisper that was insisting that when she succumbed too there would be nobody to help her as far down as she could, and carried on. Whether or not that was the case, it didn't change that there were things that needed doing and that for now she could still do them. Nobody else would be in a hurry to. 

~

It was a long and tiring week. For the first few days Florence had considered moving in, but really it would be more trouble than it was worth. Not that she saw much of the inside of her own home. Much as she might have expected, Jonathan was a little bit of a whiny baby when he was sick, and Lewis was finding it difficult to be sick like this for the first time without his mother. He was polite, but she could tell it was difficult for him and there was nothing she could do about it. It ached in her own chest for her own reasons too. 

Both of them were hardly sleeping through the night, and when the nausea and vomiting kicked in too she had very little rest between cleaning up. They each had a bucket, but sometimes things were unpredictable. The washing machine barely had a break for four days straight, and it was when she finally managed to sleep longer than three hours that she finally thought they might have broken the back of it. 

On the fourth day they both kept down water and crackers, on the fifth day they managed some chicken soup, and although she would never have admitted it, Florence nearly cried from gratitude. She could feel exhaustion like a grey fog in her temples, behind her eyes, and it was a relief not just because the bulk of the work now was done, but because the two people she cared so very much about were almost back to their old selves. It had been a long time since she’d had to nurse like that, although Jonathan had had a few colds and such over the time she’d known him which had just made him grumpier than usual. Lewis, on the other hand, had been… harder to deal with. At first she had been able to focus just on him, on the simple tasks which needed to be done, but it had taken on so much more meaning as it always did, when she remembered Celeste and childhood illnesses, and the one which had finally taken her away. 

Medical care was better now, and they had access to it. She had potion ingredients, she could brew cures if they were needed the way she hadn’t been able to then, they were free to take full advantage of all of the advances that had been made… but it was a fear that didn’t really fade, made worse by exhaustion. 

Six days after she had come for breakfast only to find that Lewis was sick, at the end of a very long week, Lewis was up and about, trying to catch up on his homework, and Jonathan was wandering around in his blasted kimono again, getting up to his usual tricks. When he picked up his saxophone again she knew he was definitely back to normal. She could feel a headache building in her temples, and she wasn’t sure whether it was the freeform jazz or the bug she’d been trying to ignore and hoping she didn’t pick up for the last week. 

She waited until they were both busily occupied, then said her goodbyes and left before either of them could challenge her, returning to her own home and leaning back against the door as she closed it behind her, enjoying the blissful familiarity and calm of home. Not that she didn’t like Jonathan’s house, but this was her own home, her refuge, and she didn’t take that for granted anymore. 

She kept her eyes closed, feeling the pounding in her temples and the heat in her brow, the sensation of something not quite right in her stomach. As much as she had been trying to ignore it, she had definitely come down with something, and she had to hope it would pass relatively painlessly. She’d been too busy nursing Jonathan and Lewis to be able to make any preparations for this to be easier on herself. At least she had her magic to lean on now, if necessary. That could make a lot of things easier, but she didn’t take it for granted these days, and some things were better done by hand anyway. 

Oh but keeping her eyes closed felt so much better, and she walked through the house blindly, reliant on her memory and her other senses to her bedroom. Perhaps she could change, and then take up residence in the bathroom for the next few days. It was doubtful that she would be missed, and that seemed like the most painless solution. 

~

When Florence opened her eyes she was surprised to be tucked up in her own bed. A quick glance under the sheets confirmed that she was still dressed in her own clothes, but that at least somebody had removed her shoes. Her head ached and she could tell she had a fever, but the worst seemed to have passed. She reached for a tissue from a box which had been very considerately placed beside the bed and blew her nose, closing her eyes against the pain and fighting down the nausea which threatened. 

She had been ill since moving to Michigan, of course she had, but her response to it had usually been to sequester herself away and hope she would get better. It was always... harder than it should be, but knowing that she was irrational about it didn't make it at all easier. It wasn't something she wanted to inflict on other people. Being vulnerable always made her uneasy. 

The door opened, and Florence instinctively reached for an umbrella which wasn't there, but Lewis walked in carefully carrying a tray. 

"...Lewis?"

"Hello Mrs Zimmermann, I hope you're feeling okay... I brought you some chicken noodle soup?"

"...Thank you, that's very kind. Who made it?"

"Uncle Jonathan made it. Well, he conjured it. Don't worry I tasted it downstairs to make sure it's edible."

"...Thank you. I... what happened?"

"Well you took real good care of us last week, honestly we probably would have been... well it wouldn't have been good without you. I'm sure Uncle Jonathan would have tried his best but it doesn't... come naturally to him? But you weren't looking so good when you left and we were worried, so Uncle Jonathan came over to check on you and found you passed out on the floor, so we just..."

"I'm sorry, when was this?"

"A couple of hours ago?"

"Oh... I see... well, thank you... I... I appreciate it."

Lewis carefully set the tray of soup and a mug of tea on the bedside table. 

"Of course... are you okay Mrs Zimmermann? You look a little..."

"Oh, I'm fine dear. It's just the fever that's all. I'm... surprised to see you?"

"You didn't think we'd come check on you?"

Florence didn't know how to answer that. She didn't want to admit to Lewis quite how lonely things had been before. He was a good boy. It was better for him not to know all the unpleasantness and the mess. Instead she glanced down at the soup. 

"...No, no of course... well. Thank you. And thank your uncle for me too."

"You're welcome Mrs Zimmermann. You're family. We're a bevy of swans remember?"

She laughed a little, knocked a little off balance in the best way by the reminder. 

"...Yes. Of course we are. Well, since you're here and I get the feeling from your expression that I'm rather confined to this bed, perhaps you might be so kind as to fetch my nightdress from the closet in the hall? I don't want to stay in these clothes any longer. Though I do appreciate that your uncle didn't try to change me."

"I think he thought you'd turn him into something if he did."

Florence laughed again. 

"I knew he was smart about some things. Thank you Lewis."

"Of course Mrs Zimmermann. I'll go fetch your nightdress and then you should get some rest. I'm sure you'll be back on your feet in no time."

"You know Lewis, with you looking after me, I think I will."


End file.
